Surge
by Appreciates Fine Labrats
Summary: What I wish had happened to Greg at the rave...One-shot. Set in "The Panty Sniffer".


**Clearly, the last episode didn't have enough Greg in it, so I made them something to fix that...Obviously spoilers for The Panty Sniffer.  
**

**______**

Greg made his way through the throng of people, bumped from all sides by their drug-fuelled movements. He allowed himself to relax and sway a little to the music, though his body was tense in anticipation of what he had to do. Still, the music was making its merry way through his senses and he remembered why he'd enjoyed the parties at this location so much. The energy was electrifying. He'd never been into the drugs, but he was excitable enough on caffeine to be able to feed off others' energy and get the same amazing experience. Greg looked around cooly, searching for his target and trying to ignore the undercover officers circling him in the crowd. Just get in, score the E, and let Brass roll the guy. He let his eyes roam over some of the women to his left and right, and resisted the urge to smile. If he wasn't working...this would be one hell of a surge. Maybe next time...

Finally he spotted one of the suspects near the middle of the floor. He was handing out pills like they were candy. Greg frowned and sighed slightly at how young some of the people taking them looked. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had a flashback of his first rave, remembering how tempted he'd been to take one of those innocent looking little pills. How desperate he'd been to prolong the euphoria of being happy and free and exploding with energy. Just wanting to belong more with like-minded people. In the end it was only his knowledge of how impure street ecstasy could be that kept him from taking it. Hell, if he wanted it that badly he could've made it himself. But that was a long time ago.

Greg shook himself out of his memories and pushed his way deeper into the crowd. It was time. He moved his body in time with the music, playing it cooler and cooler as he came closer, until he was standing right in front of the suspect. Greg stuck his hand out expectantly, curling his lips into a smile. He purposefully avoided eyeing the gun sticking out of the man's jacket, knowing if he so much as glanced at it he'd be made. Still, the knowledge it was there sent shivers down his spine, despite the almost unbearable heat in the club. All around them kids danced on, oblivious to the transaction.

After a second of hesitation the white pill dropped into his hand, and he closed his fist around the precious thing. Success. His eyes found the other suspect; he was dancing further inside the club. Greg pocketed the pill and turned away, trying to blend into the crowd while staying within eyesight of the suspects. Brass had told him the brunette was Everett, the blond was Bell. Greg pulled out his cell phone and hurriedly typed in his message. The pent-up adrenaline from his close encounter was sending jitters down into his fingers, making use of the phone harder than usual. He glanced up hurriedly, but the man was still in his sights. He pressed send.

_Everett's leaving_

The phone showed no signal. Greg held it up into the air and hit send again, glancing around in alarm. Everett was walking towards the exit without his partner. If Greg couldn't get a hold of Brass he'd get away. Panic gripped him, and his mind raced quickly through alternatives. The man was pushing his way through the crowd towards Greg, ready to exit the building, and Brass was still too far away to stop him. Greg shoved his phone into his pocket and stepped up to Everett, an eager grin pasted on his face.

"Hey can I get another roll?" he asked breathlessly. There was a long moment of silence as Everett stared at him, and it seemed like he wasn't going to go for it. "I lost the other one.".

The man's eyes bored into Greg; rooting him to the spot. He breathed shallowly as Everett's hand moved dangerously close to his gun, and Greg forced himself not to move a muscle. Finally Everett reached further into his jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie with a few pills in it. As soon as the bag touched Greg's hand, Brass was there and pressing a gun into the man's neck.

"Don't move," growled Brass. "Don't even twitch or this'll be your last party."

Greg exhaled slowly under his breath. Everett didn't move, but his eyes were pure hatred. The cold shiver was back, but this time Greg stared him down, comforted in the certainty that he was going to jail. And then he was gone, pulled away by officers.

"What's your 20 on Bell?" came Brass' gruff voice.

Greg looked up to where Bell had been dancing and frowned. "He was right there, a minute ago, but he's gone," he said, looking around worriedly.

"All right, we'll go around the back, you go outside and wait for backup while we get this guy. Good job, Sanders."

Greg nodded absently, busy scanning the crowd for the other man. He couldn't believe he'd screwed up and let Bell get out of his sight. "Yeah, sure."

Brass left through the front entrance, and though Greg should have followed him, he had a strange compulsion to head further into the club. The beat was getting into his head again, and he itched to take his jacket off from the heat. Greg walked around the outside of the room, weaving in and out of dancers and heading loosely in the direction he knew the bathrooms used to be. He wasn't sure why, but something told him to go there.

The sea of people parted for a second, and Greg saw him. Bell was pushing his way through the crowd, shoving people out of the way like a man who was running from something. Obviously he'd seen the officers get his partner. The crowd was parting before him, but it had less to do with his strength and more to do with the gun he was brandishing in front of him. As more people realized what was happening, screams rent the air. Frightened people scrambled to get out of the way.

Greg broke into a run; body knowing what he was going to do before even his mind did, and way before his caution could stop him. Bell had grabbed a girl in his way who'd stumbled while moving and was now pressing his gun into her neck, using her as a battering ram to clear the rest of the way.

"Let her go, Bell!" Greg roared, loud enough to be heard above the screaming and music. Looking back at his decision he'd probably say it was foolish, what with his lack of a gun and Bell's distinct possession of one, but he'd also say it was undeniably the right one. Better than his last decision involving a suspect, at least. The people here were more worth protecting than he was, and again Greg didn't have time to wait for backup.

Greg reached Bell just as he was turning to see who'd yelled at him. They had made it to a little-used hallway at the back of the club, washrooms with boarded up doorways and no way out. The scene behind them was hectic with stampeding people. Only the girl was still in Bell's grip, and Greg didn't even think twice about lunging towards him and grabbing his wrist. He twisted Bell's arm upward, working his hand towards the gun grip and fighting with Bell every step of the way. Their bodies were struggling against each other. Greg had almost managed to get the gun out of his hand when he felt a stabbing pain in his temple.

Bell jabbed his elbow into Greg's face again, making him stumble back involuntarily, dazed from the hit. Through his headache he could still tell that the girl had thankfully gotten away, but Bell had used the moment of distraction to bring the gun down and point it right at Greg's chest. Greg managed to get his equilibrium and stumbled forward again, his hand scrambling for the barrel; he almost had it! But Bell was too fast, and all he could do was lower the gun's trajectory. Greg felt the shot before he heard it; felt the pain hit right in his gut. The shock jerked his body back and his nose filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder. But instead of falling back and lying down, adrenaline rushed to his head and he ignored the pain to take a lunge forward. He couldn't let Bell hurt these kids...

The force of his stumble was enough to push Bell backwards. Greg made one last desperate attempt and used Bell's surprise to snatch the gun's handle. He turned it around and shot off a round square into Bell's chest. He fell with a frozen look of shock on his face, and Greg landed on top of him, blood almost choking his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, letting out a loud yell of pain that was effectively smothered by the music. After a moment of harsh panting and spitting blood, Greg managed to work a hand under his body and prop himself up. He gasped with the effort it took. Taking a look around, he dully noted that his hat had fallen off and lay trampled to the side. The hallway they were in was empty. The officers probably hadn't even heard the shots outside over the deafening music still playing.

Greg bent over, hand going to the wound on his stomach and pressing as hard as he could, knowing he had to stem the flow. The action elicited an agonized gasp from him. The bullet had hit just above his hip. If he bent his arm close he figured he could exert enough pressure to keep the bleeding under control and still be able to walk. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing hard through his nose as the walls swam in and out of view. The blow to his head hadn't helped, and he knew he was done for if he didn't get to a hospital soon. There was no one around. He had no choice but to move.

Greg moaned as he shifted his legs underneath him and tottered to his feet. The pain was dizzying, almost overwhelming. His breath hitched painfully as the pressure on his stomach increased. He gripped his waist tighter and took a tentative step forward. He almost fell from the pain, but managed to keep himself moving. After what felt like an aeon of slow, tottering steps towards the dimly lit door he hoped was his salvation, stopping every few seconds to catch his breath, he finally made it. Greg collapsed beside the door, pressing his forehead against the cool cement and reaching out with his good hand. He grasped around for the handle, gritting his teeth as every movement made his wound worse. Finally he found the handle and pulled the door open. The blast of cooler air was heavenly, and he took a few deep breaths that seemed to clear his mind slightly. He squinted against the pain, taking shallower breaths so his lungs wouldn't burn so much in his chest. He geared himself up for the final push across the lot; but he could feel his strength giving out. He didn't have much time left.

______

Brass shouted to his officers for a status report. He was at the back of the club's lot, but the noise from inside had barely abated and he could hardly hear himself over the pounding beat. One of his men was about to answer when he stiffened and brought his gun out. It pointed behind Brass at the solitary door in the back of the club. Brass turned quickly, guard up too and pointed his gun at the slowly opening door. A figure staggered out into the light, clutching its stomach with one hand. Brass swore under his breath as he recognized an all-too familiar flash of green.

"Sanders!"

He shouted into his radio. "CSI down, we need immediate medical attention!"

Greg looked up at the shouting. Three more officers were running towards him, but he just gritted his teeth and hunched over. He'd managed to get a few feet from the exit, a miracle considering the agonizingly slow walk and his blood dripping everywhere. Pain was shooting throughout his entire body. Just a few more feet, he kept telling himself. He wasn't sure why he had a stubborn desire to get a certain distance, he just knew he wanted it. But his body was giving up, and soon it refused to co-operate. He fell to his knees. Brass was there now, holding him up by the shoulders and yelling into his face. Greg couldn't understand anything anymore. His head flopped down and he finally saw the damage to his body.

His front was soaked. He could feel the sticky substance coating his jeans all down one leg, and the hand and arm that was pressed against his stomach was slick with blood. He groaned, throwing his head back weakly and focusing on Brass' face through lidded eyes.

"Bell..." he coughed weakly. "...Dead..inside. Shot...him."

Greg coughed again, shaking his head through delirium. "Sorry...Brass..."

Brass caught him as he fell, cushioning Greg's head and bringing his body down carefully to the ground.

"Hey, don't apologize Sanders." Brass shook his head in frustration. Greg had lost consciousness.

"What's the status on the medics?" he rumbled into the radio, looking around in fear.

"What's going on?" came Catherine's worried voice over static.

Brass was more frightened than he cared to admit. This was so different than losing an officer — it was Greg. Greg who he'd volunteered to go into a dangerous undercover operation. Greg who was just so young, or at least he still seemed so young. And now Greg was bleeding in his arms.

"Stay with me, damnit!"

______

Closing his eyes, Greg smiled, even that small action painful in his current condition.

"Thanks, boss. Bye."

Greg slowly returned the receiver to its cradle.

"I thought I was your boss?"

He turned his head and smiled weakly as Catherine and the team came bursting into the room, with Archie and the rest of the labrats following. They waved happily at him.

"It was Grissom," said Greg softly, leaning back into his pillows and giving them a look that dared them to say something. Somehow they all knew what that meant to him, and even Hodges didn't make a comment this time.

"I'm glad he was able to reach you," said Sara. "He wanted to see how you were." She had come around to the side of his bed and put her hand on his shoulder in a comforting way.

"So how long before you can get back out there?" joked Nick.

"Two weeks, they said."

"Enough time for the nurses to reject you twice each, huh?" Catherine smiled warmly at him. "You take all the time you need, and get better, ok?"

Greg nodded tiredly. Eventually they all had to go. Leaving him with well wishes and tips on how to get better, they filed out of the room and Greg breathed freely. He still wasn't up to talking very much, even if they had all the best intentions. Only Brass stayed behind, and he hadn't said anything the entire time. He stepped closer and slipped into a chair.

"How you feelin', kiddo?" he asked.

"Been better," smiled Greg weakly. "Kinda numb."

"I know the feeling," nodded Brass. "I guess that guy wasn't down with PLUR, huh?"

Greg smiled a little. It sounded strange coming from Brass, that he'd remembered. "Guess not, huh."

Brass pulled a notepad from his pocket slowly, almost regretfully, and cleared his throat. "Hey I know it's early but —"

"No, it's okay," shrugged Greg. He winced a little at the bad move. "I know I disobeyed orders. Sorry."

"Hey, you did good, Sanders. Every one of us would've done the same thing," said Brass, shaking his head. "This is just a formality."

Greg nodded slightly, eyes fixed ahead. "I remember thinking I screwed up. I shouldn't have lost sight of him," he sighed.

"I knew the club had a back area where no one goes. I thought he'd try to get out there. So I followed him..."


End file.
